


Half truths

by Winterflower



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bedelia's attack, Bedelia's hair, M/M, Mindfuck, what really happened when Bedelia was attacked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterflower/pseuds/Winterflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bedelia lies to Jack Crawford to protect her patient. Her current and only patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half truths

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Deals with suicide. If you are uncomfortable with such themes, please click away now. 
> 
> There were two prompts on hannibalkink, one about Bedelia's attack and the other about Hannibal stroking Bedelia's hair. Somehow those two ended up inspiring this fic.

 

Bedelia Du Maurier lookes at Hannibal, statuesque and silent in the translucent light of the window.

_Half-truths are what she tells Jack Crawford in her kitchen. Half-truths are what she tells herself about that day._

“I was protecting my patient,” she says to him. _You, my only current patient._

\--------------------------------------

_He was curious. And many unpleasant things had followed when he acted upon these curious impulses. But who could resist?_

He rang the doorbell, but no one answered. After two minutes (the amount of time it was polite for a guest to wait before pursuing further avenues of entry), Hannibal produced a small metallic object with comb-like teeth. He fiddled with the lock and within five minutes it gave a promising click. The door opened to reveal a dark corridor and warm, heavy silence. The dangerous kind.

“Bedelia?”he called out into the corridor. He was not expecting an answer. Not if things had gone as he suspected.

He opened the mahogany door and stepped into the kitchen. It was pristine except for an uncorked bottle of Chardonnay and a half-finished glass. This more than anything told him Bedelia might no longer be alive.

The signs of battle were present only in the rooms beyond the kitchen. A pale light coming from outside gave the office where she saw her patients an eerie feeling. The remains of an ancient French vase Bedelia always filled with lilies littered the floor. He knelt and picked up a large piece. The blood was already dry. A few golden hairs had stuck to it.

How crass, Hannibal thought. He had certainly expected Marshall Jones to be more inventive with his methods. He sighed and dropped the piece back on the floor where it blended with the other pieces. Murder as an art was the talent of the few and select.

Or perhaps the vase had been just a prelude to the symphony that Jones was in the process of finishing somewhere within the house.

Hannibal hummed. He liked saying Bedelia’s first name in his mind. At first it had seemed to him a childish name, something heard in a lullaby or from the mouth of a toddler, but the longer he let it grow in his mind, the more he became aware of the subtle, dark undertones attached to melodic sound. Today the name tasted like a poisonous hothouse flower.

He continued walking. The door to the library was slightly ajar, but someone had switched off the lights. He sampled the air in the dark room. Blood, sweat, perfume.

“How nice of you to join us, Dr. Lecter.”

The silky voice was coming from the armchair.

“Good evening, Marshall.”

Marshall Jones smiled.

“Are you surprised to see me here?”

_This is my design. I gave you the idea. Planted it in your head, nurtured it until it bloomed into this violent symphony._

“I referred you to Dr. Du Maurier.”

Bedelia’s limp form was lying in Jones’s lap. A red rivulet was running down her cheek. Jones wiped it with his thumb. For a moment, both of them watched, mesmerized as the red droplet balanced on the tip of his finger. Then Jones licked it off.

“Delicious and you didn’t answer my question.”

Hannibal circled the room. It was dark outside. The distant lights of downtown Baltimore hung suspended in the dark velvet like giant fireflies.

His sessions with Marshall had been anything but orthodox.

_“May I make a confession, Dr. Lecter? I feel a particular kind of affection toward you.”_

_“Not uncommon in a patient to be attracted to his psychiatrist.”_

_“And have you ever been attracted to a patient?”_

Borders existed between Hannibal and the world outside. But sometimes he liked to poke holes in them. Just to see the violent light of the sky.

“Do I have to?”

Jones remained silent stroking Bedelia’s hair with his left hand. In his right hand he held a hunting knife. The gleam of the edge was irresistible. The edge of ends and beginnings. It was alive in the faint light emanating from the fallen desk lamp.

“Why did Dr. Du Maurier have to die?”

Jones laughed at the question.

“She isn’t dead yet, Dr. Lecter. Oh no. The final movement of the symphony is always the most beautiful, the most violent…” he trailed off and stroked the edge of the knife. “The most deserving of an audience, don’t you think.”

Hannibal was standing behind the armchair now. Silently, he placed his hands on Jones’s shoulders.

“You have my full attention, Marshall.” Jones’s body shivered from desire.

“Your attention and nothing else?”

Hannibal’s lips curled, but Jones did not see this. Some men loved the power that came from taking control of another man’s body, but Hannibal loved taking control of another man’s mind. He trailed a finger on Jones’s throat.

The knife was lowered, closer and closer to Bedelia’s throat. How intimate, thought Hannibal, but completely unoriginal. Jones’s fingers curled around the blade. Everything was balanced; a cocoon in time and Hannibal’s finger continued its delicate motion around the collar bone of the other man.

“I recall you once told me about a nightmare, Marshall. You said you were standing on a precipice and beneath your feet you saw the dark ocean.”

Jones groaned. Hannibal leaned closer and closer, until everything –Bedelia’s bloody hair, Marshall’s eau de cologne, the gleaming edge- were in sharp focus. Then Hannibal whispered.

“And in that moment, you said, you were not sure whether you were asleep or awake.”

Jones’s hand shook ever so slightly. Hannibal smelled the salty sweat dripping on the man’s face.

“You wanted to wake up. So you took a step off the edge and fell.”

Jones groaned. Hannibal pressed his lips on the man’s neck and kissed.

“I fell…,” Jones began. A tremor passed down his back.

“But,” Hannibal nipped Jones’s earlobe, “it wasn’t a dream.”

Jones began to cry. He let go of Bedelia’s body and she slid to the floor with a thud.

“Am I… am I dreaming, Dr. Lecter?”

“What do you think, Marshall?”

Jones nodded.

“And do you recall what the only way out of the nightmare is?”

Hannibal brushed Jones’s lips with his own. Then he wrapped his right hand around Jones’s right hand pressing his fingers into the handle of the knife. The answer underlined.

“There is always an edge, Marshall,” he said and let go of Jones’s hand. Jones was shaking violently, his eyes closed, his knuckles white around the handle of the knife. Hannibal retreated into the shadow and stared outside at the calm white of the firefly lights. Even though he did not see it, he knew when it happened. Jones raised the knife to his throat and pressed. The edge was an end and a beginning.


End file.
